


blowing kisses at the firing squad

by oddishly



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-25
Updated: 2012-06-25
Packaged: 2017-11-08 12:51:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/443384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oddishly/pseuds/oddishly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean against the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	blowing kisses at the firing squad

**Author's Note:**

> written for dancetomato for springfling 2012

Dean wakes up with dust in his eyes.

He doesn't bother opening them yet. He doesn't know what he's going to see when he does. Maybe he doesn't want to see it clearly. The dust might be a good thing. He doesn't know.

"Dean?"

That's Sam's voice. Dean smiles. "Yeah," he says. "Just a minute." 

He lifts his hands to his face and knuckles at his eyes. It hurts. He hasn't used them in a while. This isn't what he'd call recommended treatment.

"Okay," says Sam's voice. 

Dean knuckles harder, and then he takes his hands away and opens his eyes.

The first thing he sees is the mould. The ceiling is streaked black, darker patches in each of the corners but mostly right above Dean, and if he tilts his head, he can follow it down the tile. A little way beneath the ceiling is a window made of frosted glass, also smeared with mould, this time in white splotches. It turns black again beneath the glass. Dean wrinkles his nose.

"Dean?" says Sam's voice again.

Dean turns his head and there's Sam. Not two feet away, right on the edge of whatever he's sitting on, so close that Dean could reach out with both hands to touch him if he wanted. Dean wants. "Sammy," he says, and tries to lift himself up so he can.

Sam drops to his knees before he gets anywhere. He grabs for Dean's hands and squeezes tight, then lets his hold slip down to Dean's wrists and stops him from moving. His hands are wet. "Stay still," he says. "There isn't much room."

Dean stares at his brother until he has to blink, and then he makes himself glance around the rest of the room, find out where he's ended up. He gets distracted when he looks down at himself. "Why am I naked?" 

"That's how you showed up."

"You brought me back in a bathroom?" Dean raises his eyebrows. "To a bathtub?" 

"No," says Sam. "I brought you back to the bedroom, but – Dean – "

"What?"

Sam leans sideways and Dean props himself up on his elbows to see. The door between the bathroom and the bedroom is hanging off its hinges, the cheap surround splintered, and just this side of the frame is a line of salt piled nearly an inch high. Just in front of that and filling most of the room is a devil's trap drawn in blood, the circle ending an inch from Sam's foot. Through the empty frame Dean can see six or maybe seven people, staring into the bathroom at him and Sam, their eyes black. 

Dean drops back into the tub. "Demons," he says. "They couldn't give us a break, huh."

"I don't know how much you remember," says Sam. "But it took a while to get you out. They knew I was going to try again today." 

Dean pulls his wrists free so he can inspect Sam's hands for himself. On one the cuts are starting to scab but his fingertips are wet. On the other the wound is bleeding freely. He looks at Sam, who stares back, and then the floor, where the points of the trap are glistening.

"Jesus Christ," says Dean. He takes a breath. Then another one. "Jesus Christ, okay. So you got a plan?"

"No. It started and ended with getting you out. I didn't know they'd be here." 

"Guess they wanted me back as much as you did."

"Guess so," says Sam. He catches Dean's eye. "Got kinda boring around here without you."

"That doesn't surprise me, Sammy. You got Ruby's knife?"

"No," says Sam. "They do." He jerks his head through the door. Apparently the demons are paying attention to their catch up, because one of them, someone who used to be a boy no older than twenty, grins at Dean with all his teeth and pulls the knife out of his jacket and waves it around in the air. Dean blinks at him.

He looks back at Sam. "What about exorcising them?"

"Dean," says Sam. "There aren't a lot of demons left in Hell. They're all here waiting for you. Any time I exorcise one, a whole roomful more comes back." He grins at Dean. "Don't let it go to your head."

Dean grins right back and thinks about scuffing him over the head, then realises he'd only make a fool of himself, what with the stuck naked in a bathtub thing. Sam's head is just a bit too far away to be scuffed. 

He shifts where he's lying and Sam gets it, standing up without breaking the devil's trap and changing his grip so Dean can manoeuvre himself up. 

"What do you want to do?" asks Sam once Dean's mostly upright, legs stretched out in front of him in the tub.

Dean thinks. What he wants is a full night's sleep. He wants a burger. He wants to sneak in to watch a movie with Sam and he wants his jacket back, the nice one that disappeared after his first night in Purgatory, and he wants to go for a drive down the nearest freeway and not have to think about what might be chasing them.

Instead he looks at Sam. He's worked his way around so he's sat beside Dean, one arm around his neck, a cushion against the chill porcelain, the hand of the other resting on the edge of the tub. Dean stares at it, trying to decide how many times it's been stitched, how many times he held the needle. He can't remember.

"What I want to do," he says, "is blow you in the front seat of my car."

Sam doesn't say anything, but then, Dean doesn't really give him a chance to. He pushes his head back into the crook of Sam's arm and shuts his eyes. "And then I want you to fuck me. And I want to get up in some shitty diner on the edge of town and kiss you on the way to the bathroom and again on the way back, and I want you to get pissed when I don't brush my teeth in the morning because then my mouth tastes like spunk and whatever crap I ate the night before every time you kiss me, and I want to put my hand on your back, right down low, whisper sweet fucking nothings in your ear any time you make googly eyes at a librarian. That is what I want to do, Sam."

Sam still doesn't say anything. Dean leaves his head where it is in Sam's arm but decides it's safe enough to open his eyes. He's vaguely aware of the demons kicking off beyond the doorframe, but that's not what he's looking for just now. Sam is staring at him.

"And," Dean adds, "I don't want to have to die again to get to do all that." He nudges his head back.

Sam takes a noisy breath. He frowns, getting that crease between his eyes that Dean has spent his whole life wanting to smooth away with his fingers, and then he relaxes. He catches Dean's eye again. "That's a lot to take in, man."

"Yeah, well, no time like the present," says Dean, and Sam nods. Dean's heart is strangely steady, like it never has been any other time he's thought about shoving Sam into a wall and holding him there, climbing under the bedcovers with him with some flimsy pretence of nightmares, following him to college and forgetting to come home. He thinks about all the times he's wanted to wake his brother up in the morning with a kiss and a blowjob, jerking off to the sound of him in the shower, catching his breath at the sight of him, and never, not even once, daring to hope. And now there's no time left.

The demons are all still laughing, but Dean can barely hear them. He can feel Sam's heart pounding, fingers tight around his forearm. He isn't sure, can't really see through sudden, inexplicable water in his eyes, but he thinks Sam might be smiling.

"Okay," says Sam. He shifts around, tugs his arm a little looser, gets comfortable on the floor beside Dean. His legs sprawl halfway through the devil's trap. 

Dean spares a moment to hope that the salt line will hold, but then Sam leans down and presses his lips to Dean's forehead, to his mouth. There he lingers, at the very corner of Dean's lips, so Dean can still talk if he wants.

"Tell me some more," says Sam, alive, and close, Dean's favourite way for him to be, "about what we're going to do when we get out of this one."


End file.
